Give Me Strength
by Rebekah D
Summary: She doesn't know when he started to look less like a boy and more like a man, but she relishes in the hints of the boy she used to know.
1. Give Me Strength

**Harry Potter is not my creation, this story however is. **

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**Give Me Strength**

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The Gryffindor common room is vacant all for two lone figures sitting on the sofa, the sofa they'd come to think of as their own over the years. Harry's somewhere off on his own, licking his wounds, with Ginny, talking to McGonagall, gathering up stray hippogryffs with Hagrid, flying around capturing Death Eaters with the Auror's who have finally been dispatched from the newly taken over Ministry, or better yet, he's laid out on a free bed in one of the empty dormitories- snoring with his mouth wide open. However, Hermione and Ron are alone in the common room sneaking looks at each other and having an all out stereotypical awkward-teenage-angst-laiden-attraction-moment.

They've kissed already though, so the awkwardness should have abated, but it hasn't, because now their mutual attraction has actually been expressed, however briefly and ever so publicly.

"I can't believe it's all over." Hermione says after a rather juvenile amount of eye flicks and non-mutual lip biting. The tension is thick, and beautifully so.

"I can't either." Ron says, rubbing at the back of his neck with his hand, which feels clammy. He's nervous, shouldn't the nervousness be gone? He's killed two bloody horcruxes and helped defeat dozens of Death Eaters, walked in on his brother and his wife having sex on their kitchen bench. He shudders involuntarily at the last thought, he'd vowed to attempt to obliviate that memory from his mind, but the stress of the day probably loosened it from the back of his mind. Bloody hell, concentrate you sodding git! He takes a breath, tries to gather his wits, and focus on a more productive train of thought.

It's only Hermione, he thinks. You know, _Hermione, _the girl you've fancied since you were, well if you're honest, probably since you were about 12, but only admittedly so since you were 15? And admittedly means you admitted it to yourself and no one else. Hermione, wild haired, know it all, brilliant, slight, accidentally made her self into a cat-person, the petrified girl you visited every day in the infirmary 2nd year as she lied stock still and unresponsive, Hermione. The girl who grabbed you up a few hours ago, locked lips with you, and stood by when your brother was killed in the midst of that horrendous battle.

Damn it- Fred. He feels the sadness gathering in his abdomen, making a hot streak to his face, and they hold vigil around the corners and backs of his eyes. He mentally shakes it off, but they linger, like an eye lash in his eye, irritating, but somehow tolerable.

"Do you?" Hermione starts.

"I mean." They both start to speak at the same time, looking down at their laps, across the room at the cold fireplace, unicorn tapestries, a half eaten apple on the floor by a bin near a table.

They should be able to talk, but have they really ever been able to have a full on conversation without it having to do with school or Harry, his family, Horcruxes, or mushrooms and stolen eggs? They've always skirted their issues, they're screaming and flailing- now obvious issues.

He wants to tell her that he loves her. She wants to tell him that the kiss meant more to her than any other physical act of her life, right up there with the last time she hugged her mother, and the last time she felt her fathers stubble graze her cheek as he kissed her good-bye. Kissing Ron though- kissing him is on an entirely different level. However, neither of them, both intelligent, one more so than the other by common standards, cannot seem to get past their awkward young adult fumbling with vocabulary.

In so many words, they're both exponentially befuddled.

"Do you want to go for a walk?" Ron finally forces out quietly. Thinking, maybe physical activity will help dissipate the tongue-tied-red-faced-non-banter that's currently befalling them.

"All right." Hermione answers, getting up from the sofa, wrapping her arms around her self, thinking better of it and letting her arms lie simply by her sides. She watches him amble up from the sofa, his taller frame taking up almost all of her sight line.

She doesn't know when he started to look less like a boy and more like a man, but she relishes in the hints of the boy she used to know. The boy on the train with the dirt on his nose, the boy who was too attached to his hand-me-down rat, the boy she fancied, and now the man he's become.

They make their way out of the Portrait Hole, down into the belly of the damaged castle.

People mill about sparingly, twos and threes at a time. Lone figures are never left to them selves long, someone always takes them up, or stops to slump beside them on a bench, next to a tapestry, wrap their weak arms around their saddened shoulders and pull them to the Great Hall to be assessed by healers, then send them on to St Mungos for further care.

They walk side by side, close together but not touching. He wants to hold her hand, she wants him to take her hand, but neither does anything of the sort.

"Astronomy Tower?" She suggests.

"Sure." He answers.

The climb is gruelling on their over tired but wired bodies. When they make it to the top, the platform is littered with discarded parchment, it flutters in the breeze, never quite taking off. Someone has set up an old Victrola on the one stationary desk, a record plays, bumping along old and forlorn.

"Must be Lupin's old player," Ron examines it more closely. "Probably swiped it from storage." He looks over the stack of muggle records encased in yellowing paper sleeves.

"'Member, he had it on during D.A.D.A, 3rd year?" He continues, bending down and picking up a sleeve or two.

"Who's Louis Armstrong?" He wonders allowed.

Hermione walks to him, gently takes the records from his hands, laying them back on the stack.

"A jazz musician." She answers him, taking his hand, rubbing her thumb over his knuckles, some of the skin covering them is broken but healing over with red scabs.

"Is he any good?" He asks, looking down at their joined hands.

"One of the best." She answers.

He readjusts their hands, lacing his fingers with hers.

"Maybe we can go see him sometime?" He looks into her face, and starts walking backwards leading them over to a railing, looking out over the grounds.

She shifts closer, laying her head on his shoulder like she's done many times before. It's the one demonstrative act she's allowed her self all these years.

"That would be difficult." She looks at his profile, taking in his features, pale skin, bright eyes, golden eye lashes. An unfortunate cut mars his cheek, emphasising his cheek bone.

"Is he really popular?" He looks down at their hands, he likes how their colours blend. Him pale, almost a whitish pink, hers slightly more lush, like the delicate colour of the tips of the first blooms of his mother's favourite rose bush.

"Yes, but he's been dead for a long time now." She nudges him playfully.

"That's just rich." He smiles, laughing at himself.

"Isn't it?" She agrees, smiling at his reaction.

"Hermione?"

"Yes, Ron?"

"I love you." He can't believe he actually said those words, they just tumbled out, preamble or not, they've been said and he realises that he's genuinely relieved.

She tries not to twitch, but her fingers flex and grab his more tightly in reaction. She can feel his eyes on her, waiting. He swallows, his nerves creating a lump in his throat.

"I love you too." She finally says, looking up and into his hopeful blue eyes.

"You, you do?" He asks. "No, wait, forget that... I'm glad." He lets out a relieved breath, air pushing out of his lungs loudly, not a sigh, but almost.

"Yes, I do, and I'm glad too." She smiles up at him. He grins brightly, but the months are catching up in his eyes, the last 24 hours.

She drops his hand, reaches up catching him in a tight embrace. Her arms around his shoulders, meandering to his neck. He encircles her waist, feeling the fibers of her jumper under his hands.

"Would you just hold me for awhile?" She asks, her face in his neck, her lips brushing his skin.

The Victrola stops playing its wobbly tune.

"Yes." Ron encircles her closer, tighter, their bodies comfortably flush.

They stand like that for minutes, he sways a bit, moving to non-existent music. It's the closest they've ever come to dancing together. He thinks back all those months to Bill's wedding, watching her dance with Krum, her swirling red dress, her smiles, the look of concentration on her face as she probably counted off the beats in her head, the way her hair flipped about, a halo of rich golden brown curls, the sick feeling in his stomach. He thinks back further to the Yule Ball, the fake ice on the walls, the shivers they made him feel on sight, her jumping up and down with enthusiasm as the band cranked out loud and raucous, her cheeks rosy with exertion, the tears he tried to ignore. Fuck all, he still can't think on that without feeling like a complete bastard.

He pulls back, his hands leaving her waist. Slowly he cups her face in his hands, leaning down gently putting his lips to hers.

She kisses him back, light pressure at first, but the heat gathers and the momentum picks up. Soon he's pushed his tongue past the barrier of his lips, and she answers in kind. The sultriness of her mouth is a comfort, but it only fuels his desire for more. His hands have left her face to clasp around her waist, then wander her back, continuing back to her waist, bunching up folds on her jumper, he nudges past the cloth, feeling the warmth of the cotton shirt underneath, the only obstacle between her skin is that cotton. She's against his chest, her hands grasping his shoulders, then brushing through his hair, making his scalp tingle with the sensation. He moans his approval as their mouths parry. They shuffle their feet, and he moves his leg between hers, absently pushing the growing bulge in his trousers against the softness of her belly. He moans into her mouth, the pressure of her cloth covered flesh pressing to his erection is such a new almost overwhelming feeling.

She pulls back, breathing heavily into his face.

"Ron?" She tries to catch her breath, licking her lips enticingly, then leaning her forehead against his.

He doesn't answer her, simply pulls back, then rejoins their lips. His hands move from her waist, to her hips, bringing them closer together.

He backs them up into one of the walls, the flat surface bringing them into more full fledged contact.

Beyond the sensations of having Hermione finally in his arms, the underlying niggling sadness bites at him. He tries to quell it, plunging his tongue into her mouth, pulling back and attacking her neck, sucking, laving, trying to drown the roar that's starting to storm in his head.

She moans, she sighs, she cries out with the new sensations he elicits from her.

He bites down gently, and she lets out a whimper, as he soothes it with his tongue. His hands have finally made it past the barricade of her cotton shirt, the skin of her back is smooth and warm, he feels the raising of goose pimples as his hands travel farther up and to the front of her chest, his fingers circling her rib cage just below the line of the bra encasing her breasts. Not to be cliché, but her chest is heaving.

They both sigh as he pushes her bra up and out of the way, cupping one of her pert breasts in his hand.

She's so soft, he appreciates the slight heaviness, the impossibly silky feeling underside, then the hardened and peaked nipple. However, seemingly out of nowhere, he breaks from her mouth and instead of a moan, or a sigh, a pathetic sob falls out.

And the crumbling starts.

He backs up, removing his hands from underneath her clothes, as the sobs come up unwitting from somewhere deep inside his chest. It's like he's lost control of his own body. He's not even aware of the tears that are slipping from his eyes until the sting of their salt washes over the cut on his cheek.

He tries to stifle the sounds rumbling out of him, covering his mouth with both his hands, but the contractions of his diaphragm make him bend forward. He closes his eyes, but tears still spill from behind his eyelids.

He's only half aware of the gentle murmurs that Hermione emits. Or when she switches places with him, pressing him to the wall, letting him slide to the decking. She sits before him, her hands on his bent knees, telling him to breathe, that it's okay, it's okay, it's okay.

But it's not.

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**Author's notes: I have written this with full knowledge of The Deathly Hallows, consider this story to be an amalgamation of both the films and the second half of The Deathly Hallows that has not yet been released on film. Yes, I do plan on continuing the story. **


	2. Follow Me

**I do not own Harry Potter, I do however own this story.**

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**Chapter Two**

**Follow Me**

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He feels like his head is going to burst from the pressure that seems to be on a continuous pulsing beat inside his temples.

He barely registers the sound of Hermione knelt in front of him, or the feeling of her hands on his hands, his face, his knees, his legs, his arms, his chest.

She tries to take his fingers from his face, she's afraid that he's going to suffocate himself they're pressed so tightly that the skin bulges a stark white over the sides. She manages to pry them free, and he breathes harshly through his nose, letting out an even louder one from his mouth. This devastated noise swells up from his throat, a sob, a series of them. They're like a cascade of a waterfall on her ears, rushing and horrible.

She tries to quiet the urge to follow his example, his sadness is so overwhelming, but she holds fast to his hands, squeezing them, feeling the chilled skin of his fingers, and the warmth of the blood circulating through them.

His mind is a jumble of thoughts, but one is forefront above all else.

"What, what if I forget them?" He manages to get out between sobs.

She's puzzled for a moment, but catches on quickly.

"You won't, you can't, they're too important. He's too important."

Fred - she means Fred, he knows she does. He closes his eyes still stinging with tears, and a flood of images and memories flash in a stream behind his lids.

The steady beat of the jig Bill and Fleur danced to at their wedding twangs in his ears, pitch perfect and joyous. He sees Fred and George in matching dress robes and unique colourful vests and ties, trying to crack on to their far removed new Veela cousins. Fred, dragging one curvy brunette in a vibrant violet dress out on to the floor. His face bright and shining with mirth, his laugh over powering the memory of the sound of the band moving on to another song. He twirled her around the floor with a flourish, bringing her back in tightly, she leaned her head back and laughed. Her eyes were green, he remembers that, and Fred was slightly drunk.

He laughs to himself at the memory that follows suit.

Fred an hour or so later, coming around the side of the Burrow, wiping his lips on his pocket square, his face smeared with pink lipstick stains. His tie undone, but he'd started to adjust it as he stopped short in front of him looking guilty for a nano second, then saying, "you're just jealous, little brother."

"Jealous, huh? Like I'd crack on someone we're related to." He crossed his arms over his chest, trying to take an authoritative stance.

"No, I meant, you're just jealous you don't have the bollocks to drag some red frocked witch off to a dark corner and snog _her_ senseless. Besides, we're not blood relations, doesn't count."

He chortled or scoffed, he can't recall. All he knows is Fred walked up to him and punched him square in the arm, hard. Then walked, no- sauntered toward the tent even as he'd let out a loud, "owe, fucking hell!" Then started rubbing at his arm trying to alleviate the pain. "Oy, Fred!" He called out to his brothers retreating back, he remembers him turning around, still adjusting his tie into a perfect knot.

"Yeah?"

"Your zip's down."

He remembers Fred looking down, seeing that his zip was in fact down, cocking his head to the side, zipping himself back up, and winking at him as he disappeared inside the tent, the image grows fuzzy as he comes back to the present.

He opens his eyes taking in the scene in front of him, Hogwarts, the Astronomy Tower, Hermione in front of him on her knees. Then the feeling of her hands holding his, and the pounding headache beating an unrelenting rhythm inside his head.

He breathes in deeply, letting it out slowly.

"Are you with me?" Hermione asks him.

He flicks his eyes over her face, taking in the streaks of the few tears that she couldn't hold back it turns out.

"Yeah, I'm with you."

She sighs in relief, shifting next to him, he wraps his arm around her bringing her in closer, then taking her hand and threading his fingers with hers. He brings their joined hands to his lips, and kisses them, letting his lips linger.

"We just have to keep talking about them, you know? That's how they stay with us, and not just in our minds."

He nods, feeling her head rest on his shoulder.

"Yeah...?" He asks.

"Yeah." She says on a wistful breath.

"All right." He brings their hands to lay over his heart and keeps them there.

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She wakes later wrapped in a red blanket and his arms. They'd slowly gathered them selves up hours before, and settled into a bed in the same dormitory as Harry. She lies still, taking in the feeling of Ron's steady breathing at her neck, and the thrum of his heart against her back.

She doesn't know what time it is, and she doesn't know if she really cares to find out, she still feels the dregs of exhaustion both physical and emotional weighing down on her.

"Ron, Harry... Hermione?" She hears Ginny's voice carry down the corridor, searching for them.

She shifts, sitting up, Ron rolls away, taking the blanket with him.

"In here, Ginny!" She calls out.

Seconds later Ginny's pushed open the door and stands inside the room taking in the sight of the three of them, bedraggled, dirty and sleeping or in need of much more. Ginny doesn't look much better actually, her shirt is ripped, there's mud or blood or both on her trainers and the knees of her jeans. She's a mess just like them, then her eyes fall on Harry, curled into a ball around a pillow, blanket twisted up around him self.

Hermione follows Ginny's gaze, nods in understanding, then shifts to pull the curtains around her and Ron, giving Ginny and Harry some much needed and long overdue privacy.

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Six hours later, as the sun finally set, Hermione, Harry and the Weasley's minus Arthur, gathered in the courtyard of Hogwart's and Disaparrated to the Burrow. Arthur had opted to stay on and look after a few things, including the arrangements for transporting Fred's body to a Wizarding funeral parlour near Ottery St Catchpole.

As soon as all ten of them came cracking into the garden of the Burrow, Molly turned, covered her mouth with her hands, and stumbled to her knees. Ginny came to her aid almost immediately, then surprisingly George. They all stood back as George, who in all honesty had lost more than any body else by losing Fred, gathered their weeping sobbing mother into his arms and let her continue her deluge of grief.

"Oh, George, my George." Molly sobbed into George's dusty coat.

"Yes, I'm your George." He rubbed her back soothingly as the rest of them looked on.

Ron felt awkward standing about watching his mother seem to pour her soul from her eyes, and his brother, his usually sarcastic brother rock their mother like she was the child and not him.

"Let's get into the house." Hermione probed him, her warm hand threading with his.

"Yeah, yeah... the house." He answered absently, his eyes still fixed on his grieving mother and his brother on the grass.

"Yeah, mum, do you want to go in?" George asks Molly, pulling back, and brushing some of her wayward red hair away from her tear stained face.

Everyone except Ginny, Harry, Hermione and him were still outside in the garden, seemingly too afraid to leave Molly and George's side. Fleur, Bill, Percy and Charlie had all gone into the house, you could hear Fleur's quiet controlled rummaging about the kitchen, probably looking for something to put together to eat, maybe Molly's stash of good loose tea.

"Yeah, mum sounds like Fleur's got started on some tea for us. Cup of tea, maybe a bath, sleep in your own bed, it'll put you right, right? Always does." George says, pulling their mother up from the grass, and walking her towards the back entrance of the house.

"Best not let that girl mess with your kitchen too much anyway, might label everything in French."

Molly didn't say a word, just leaned into her sons side, and let him lead her into their home.

He stood back in the garden, watching Harry and Ginny walk into the house, the sight of Harry taking up his sister's hand, and kissing her forehead as they stood in the lit doorway should have made him feel something protective and brotherly, but he just took it in and realised he just wanted to see his best friend happy, and his sister as well. Okay, maybe there was a slight twinge of wanting to punch his mate in the bollocks, but that would have to be dealt with later.

"Shall we?" Hermione asks, her hand still in his, the slight chill of the late spring night starting to creep down the collar of his jumper.

He couldn't move though, realising that he hadn't stood in this garden or this spot for almost a year.

"Not yet." He answered, squeezing her hand, then pulling her in closer to his side. "I just want to be here for a bit."

Hermione nods, then leaning up she brushes a light kiss over his cheek, the one with the cut on it.

"All right."

So they stood there, in the garden, until Ginny called them in for tea and sandwiches.

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**Author's Notes: I can't recall whether or not the entire Weasley family, including Fleur were present at the final battle of Hogwart's, so forgive me if I've gotten some facts wrong.**


	3. Nothing

**I do not own Harry Potter, I do however own this story. **

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**Chapter Three**

**Nothing**

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It's a blissfully beautiful sunny day, this is what he thinks as he wakes the morning they're going to bury his brother. He rolls onto his side, looking out the window of his attic room, Pig's cage sits on the sill, he flaps his wings and preens his feathers. The bird let's out a squawk in greeting or annoyance that he'd forgotten to put a cover over his cage for the night. He rolls to his back breathing in through his nose, and letting it out of his mouth slowly.

This day won't be easy, he knows that, he can already feel the tightness and apprehension taking hold in his chest, but he thinks he won't have an episode like he did on the Astronomy Tower, actually- he prays that nothing like that happens again, or at least not in front of any body except maybe Hermione. She knows how to handle him, but he doesn't know if he can handle himself.

It's been two days since they'd come back to the Burrow, two days of awkward meals, unplanned crying jags from his mother, a broken dish, a smashed cup, and three raw eggs on the floor.

He and Hermione had had little to no time alone as well, and even though whatever they were now was still very new and not yet defined, he was starting to feel antsy. Not antsy to break things off, but antsy to simply be over this hump, this grief that was currently the barometer for everyone's out look on life.

He always thought that when they won this bleeding war there would be more of an air of accomplishment. He's never been naive enough to not think that people would die in the process, but he always hoped his family would fair well. His hope was misplaced.

Pig squawks again, he stares at the bird, and wonders if his tiny mind has any idea what's been happening around him for a year. The poor bird's been dispatched to carry messages for the Order down to the seaside to Shell Cottage, the Lake District to secreted allies, as far north as the Shetlands even. Poor bird indeed.

He reaches into his bedside table and finds some seeds and dried fruit he'd stashed there, he figures since it's dehydrated it can't hurt him, then shifts up and out of bed walking to the bird's cage. He puts his hand out flat, and waits for Pig to realise he's being offered something better than his usual plain morning breakfast.

"Right, Pig... have at it." He puts his hand right against the wires of the cage, and waits.

Reluctantly Pig creeps along his perch, and gently pecks at a dried bilberry, at least he thinks it's a bilberry. He watches the bird crack open a seed and deftly pick out the meat. His other hand comes up, and amazingly Pig allows him to gently run his finger tips over the top of his head. His feathers are soft of course, but not like human hair.

"Ron?" He looks up and sees Hermione standing in his door only open half way.

He continues to let Pig eat out of his hand.

"Yeah?"

"Your dad's needing you." He wishes she'd come in, sit with him, talk with him, but he knows she feels that now's not the time.

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The first night they were back, they stood in the garden for a half hour and listened to the bustle of the house, the garden gnomes playing in the vegetable patch, and the subtly awakening insects. After being called in for tea and sandwiches, they sat next to each other at the table, they watched each other eat out of the corners of their eyes, and when no one was looking he'd reached under the table and took her hand up again.

Later that night, after mum had been tucked up in bed, his dad had arrived exhausted and dusty. He and Hermione had sat on the sofa, and listened to him munch down on left over sandwiches, occasionally letting out stifled breathes that verged on sobs. He felt helpless and dumb, but they just sat there, not wanting to leave the bottom level of the house, because for one, propriety dictated that even though for the last year they'd essentially slept in the same room, back at the Burrow those habits had to die. He also didn't want to leave, because even though he didn't know how to comfort his dad, just being there in the same space made him feel like he was doing something.

"Well, kids..." Dad trailed off standing in front of them looking wrinkled and drained.

Hermione and him still were holding hands, and sat close to one another, a new development for them, but even more so for Arthur to see.

"Don't stay up too late." He finally finished, then in an awkwardly tired state turned and walked up the steps away from them.

So there they sat.

Harry had sat with them for awhile after his dad had arrived, Ginny too. George had decided to watch over mum until dad arrived, and Fleur and Bill had gone to bed. Percy, he didn't care where Percy was, and Charlie was out in the garden de-gnoming in the middle of the night. Ron preferred not to dwell on Charlie's new nocturnal habit however.

He assumed that Harry and Ginny had not gone their separate ways when they'd said good night a good fifteen minutes apart from each other, but to conjure up enough brotherly concern was proving to be difficult, especially when he'd just spent twenty minutes listening to his father try and hold himself back from breaking down at the kitchen table.

Necessity dictated his next move though, in other words he really had to wee.

He stood up with her hand still in his. She stayed seated, but pulled him forward a little.

"Hermione?" She looked up into his face, her expression soft and open.

"Yes?" She waited.

"I have to take a wee." No one ever said subtlety or tact was his specialty.

She didn't drop his hand, in fact she squeezed it, then leant forward and put her forehead to it, laughing.

"By all means, Ron... go to the loo, I'm not stopping you!"

He gratefully dropped her hand, smiled down at her, and walked quickly to the loo.

After washing his hands (of course he washes his hands), he finds Hermione standing on the landing outside the door.

"I think..." She's wringing her hands, looking tired and a little nervous.

"Yeah?" Fantastic, now he's worried about her, again.

"I'm going to take a bath, and go to sleep." She looks at him, her face expressing her disappointment. Not in him he hoped, but in the situation.

"That's, that's fine... I should probably go let the Ghoul out, and straighten up my room." He looks up the stairs, thinking if he looks hard enough he'll be able to see up all the flights to his door. "Bill said some of Yaxley's people were up there not long ago after word got out we were at Mal..." He trails off, the memory of Malfoy Manor flashing behind his eyes.

Hermione blinks, and steels her expression. The memories flooding her mind as well, she unconsciously rubs at her arm where the unfortunate wound is now scarring over. They'd tried to heal it at Shell Cottage, but the knife was Goblin made, and that meant that once wounds made by it healed, they could not be affected or concealed by magic. She shivers into her self, and he steps closer, taking her hand from her arm, kissing her palm, then placing it on his cheek.

"We'll get through this." He whispers.

She looks up at him, her eyes wet, but she sheds no tears. He feels her hand on his face lightly brushing the stubble on his cheek, then her thumb running ever so gently across his bottom lip. He leans in and kisses her on the lips, nothing too overt, just a caressing of lips and the tiniest bit of tongue.

They both pull away realising where they are.

"Take a bath, Hermione. I'll see you in the morning, yeah?"

"You will." She lets go of his face, and passes him going into the bathroom. She turns in the doorway, holding onto the jamb and looking up at him.

"Good night, Ron." She takes a deep breath, then smiles at him.

He stands putting his hands in his pockets.

"Good night, Hermione." He smiles down at her as well, and keeps smiling even after she's shut the door, and he can hear her starting the water for her bath.

He closes his eyes listening to the sound of water on porcelain, and imagines her testing the temperature with her finger tips. The images come fast to his mind, her slipping off her trainers, unbuckling her belt, tugging her jeans down her hips, over her bottom, letting them slide off her legs, then the puddle of them around her ankles. He sees her standing in his mind not 2 meters from him, stepping out of the circle of her jeans in her socks and knickers, pulling her jumper and cotton vest off over her head. He imagines the skin of her stomach, and the swell of her breasts encased in her probably conservative bra, he decides it's white, as well as her knickers. He opens his eyes, and stares at the subtle changes if colour in the wood of the bathroom door, the only thing separating himself from a nearly naked Hermione.

He shakes his head, trying to shake out the images of Hermione's creamy exposed skin. Then he hears the soft sound of her submerging herself in the tub, and he groans, biting his lip, hoping that she didn't hear him. He quickly turns and starts taking the stairs up to his room as quietly as possible.

Inside his room, he leans against the closed door breathing heavily from his controlled sprint. He looks down and sees the tale tell bulge in his jeans, leaning his head back and laughing, because the situation is truly ridiculous. He stops laughing abruptly, covering his mouth with his hands. He looks about the darkened room, trying to make out the shape of Harry in the bed closest to the window that he always sleeps in, but the bed's empty. He drops his hands, and sighs, recognising that if Harry's not here, he's with Ginny.

Okay, now that feeling he remembers from last year is coming back full force. Trepidation, irritation, the subtle urge to maim but not kill, this is brotherly concern and protectiveness. He knows it's useless, he knows his sister is her own person, always has been, always _had_ to be. And Harry, his best mate, he's been through hell. Honestly, he thinks, what's wrong with a little snogging? At least he's letting himself only imagine them snogging and nothing- wait there's the image of them doing much more than snogging! He shivers, then shakes his head trying to dislodge the image of his sister and his best mate shagging.

Out of nowhere he's flung forward. He stumbles and catches himself on the corner of his dresser, and let's out a yelp of pain. His forearm getting a good graze against the corner and side of the dresser.

Harry stands in the door, the light from the landing back lighting and turning him into a silhouette.

"Ahhh, mate I'm sorry!" He comes forward into the room with his hands up in concern. "I should've knocked, but I thought you were already asleep!"

Ron sits down on his bed, and holds his forearm up to get a better look as Harry turns and switches on the overhead light and shuts the door. Ron winces as he takes in the fully lit view of his knew injury. An angry cut slices down his arm from elbow to halfway down his forearm. It's luckily not bleeding heavily, and can probably be easily healed with Dittany, but in that moment, the throbbing pain is all he can think of. That and the fact that Harry had just maimed him after probably shagging his sister.

"It's not that bad, is it?" Harry asks, shuffling closer to Ron's bed.

"Fuckin' hell." Falls from his mouth, as he leans down and start blowing on the now stinging cut. "You shag my sister, then you shove me into my furniture, is that it?" He bites out.

Harry just stands in the middle of the floor, then bursts out laughing.

"Mate, I did not shag your sister, not even close." He takes out his wand, grabs his arm which has stopped bleeding. "Tergeo!" All the dried blood is siphoned away, leaving the cut clean. "Episkey!" The wound closes and heals before their eyes. He drops Ron's arm, turns and drops his wand on his own bed.

"You didn't?" Ron asks, still looking at his arm, his brain not yet catching up that the cut's now gone.

Harry sits down on his bed, careful not to sit on his wand.

"Ron, I haven't seen her in almost a year, you think I'd jump into bed with her just like that?" He snaps his fingers for emphasis.

"Well... I, um... I don't know?" He manages to get out.

"You're barking, you know that?" Harry, picks up his wand, and shoves it under his pillow, lying back, arms behind his head, his shooed feet crossed at his ankles.

Ron lies back too, but first picks up one of his pillows and throws it at Harry.

"No, I'm not... just have an active imagination, that's all." He looks over at Harry, who's caught the pillow as it harshly hit him in the face skewing his glasses. Harry takes the extra pillow and puts it behind his head, then instead of straightening his glasses he simply takes them off and drops them on the old packing crate that's his bedside table.

"Get the lights will you?" Harry says, leaning forward toeing his trainers off, starting in on his belt, he pulls off his jeans and throws them to the floor with a muffled thud.

Ron reaches into his pocket searching for his Deluminator. He fishes it out, clicks it and all the light sucks up into the long cylindrical device. Putting it back in his pocket, he too takes off his trainers and jeans, then shoves up and climbs under his covers.

"Harry?" He quietly calls out into the darkened room.

"Yeah?" Harry answers.

"Don't shag my sister." He rolls onto his side, and burrows into his pillow.

"Whatever you say, mate." Harry says, his voice filled with the traces of laughter. "Like I'd tell you if I did, anyway." He could hear him moving under his covers, adjusting his pillows.

"Reckon I'd be able to tell just by looking at your face, you'd be smiling like an idiot." He says laughing a little bit.

"Shut it, go to sleep." Harry's voice is muffled, he's probably on his stomach or side.

Ron lies on his side letting his mind wander.

"Harry?" He calls out again.

"Yeah?" Harry answers back again, his voice thick with the need for sleep.

"Do ya' think, Hermione will be mad if we didn't clean our teeth?"

"Speak for your self." Harry says after a beat.

"Fuck it." Ron sighs.

"Maybe later." Harry mutters quietly.

Ron snorts, then turns onto his back, and resigns himself to sleep.

* * *

**Author's Notes: Thank you all who have signed up for story alerts for this story, favourited the story, or left a review. **

**I promise that the story will soon earn back it's M rating, and not simply for language and conversation subject matter.**

**If anyone is at all curious, all chapter titles are from song titles by varying bands and/or artists, including the title of the story.  
**


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